Page 35 of The One Night Dash
Yet here I am, ten minutes from my hotel, not excited at all for any of it. I want to go to the hotel, peel off my boots, crawl into crisp sheets, maybe even order something ridiculous from room service, and write the book that makes my heart sing. And that’s when my phone lights up.
Lauren.
I hesitate a second too long, and yes, I feel bad for it, but a little less than I would have a few days ago.
I swipe. “Hey, Laur?—”
“Oh my God, Noelle, thank God,” she barrels through, high-pitched, frantic. “I need you right now.Right now.”
My stomach clenches. “What’s going on?”
“The florists are here at the Delamar, and they’ve completely butchered my arrangement mock-ups. I told them white peonies only, and they show up with roses. Roses! Like we’re having formal at a four-star hotel.”
I rub my temple. “Lauren, I?—”
“I can’t deal with this. They’re looking at me like I’m a lunatic, and I need you. You’re calm, you have that … nice way of talking to people.” She drops her tone and whispers, “Like them. You’ll fix it. Please, Noelle.”
It’s her please that does it—sticky-sweet, impossible to argue with without seeming like the unreasonable one.
I sigh to myself. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
After I end the call, I lean forward and ask, “Is it possible to drop me off at Delamar? I can get a ride to my hotel from there.”
“Of course, Miss Pembrooke.”
When I walkinto the Antibes Ballroom, it’s like stepping into another planet. High ceilings draped in fabric, chandeliers glowing soft gold, and Lauren in the middle of it all, like a queen holding court.
Her friends are clustered around her in sequined sweaters and designer boots, champagne flutes already in hand. They turn when I walk in, some curious, some smirking.
It hits me the second I see her—Lauren hasn’t changed. Not one bit. Blonde hair smoothed into effortless waves, skin glowing like she’s never met stress. Nalani once described her as Cameron Diaz to my Anne Hathaway, comedic compared to pretty. To me, it has always been more aptly described as her bombshell brightness while I’m the afterthought in the corner. And just like always, she fills the room the second she steps into it. Hell, it even feels like the chandeliers tilt to give her the right light.
For a heartbeat, I feel nostalgic—this is my oldest friend from college, the girl I grew up with in a sense. We had so many good times, so many of my firsts were shared with her.
Lauren sweeps toward me, relief plastered on her face like stage makeup. “You came!” she says loud enough for her circle to hear. “I knew you’d save me.”
I smile politely. Humble. Helpful. The role she’s written for me.
The florist, a young guy with sweat beading on his forehead, looks like he wants to crawl under a table. I step in, soften my voice, and ask a few questions. Within fifteen minutes, I’ve negotiated them into swapping roses for peonies—at least by the wedding day.
Everyone’s calmer. Lauren even claps her hands and gushes, “See? Didn’t I tell you she always got the job done?”
The circle of friends laugh, maybe not unkindly, but not with me either. I feel like I’m part of the entertainment.
At this moment, I wonder if she called because she needed me or because she wanted to show them she has someone who will drop everything for her, and maybe let them know that they, too, are replaceable.
But I’m here …
As soon as the florist wheels the offending roses out, I smile at Lauren. “Glad I could help. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, you’re not staying?” Lauren pouts. “We were about to open another bottle.”
“I’m wiped,” I say, keeping my tone light, apologetic. “Hotel’s calling my name.”
She doesn’t press. She doesn’t need to. She already got what she wanted. Whip cracked, job done, point made.
By the time I make it back outside and see the SUV still waiting, I realize I now have a bitter taste in my mouth. But hey, I did what I could. I smoothed feathers. And I left without ruffling any.
The driver gets out of the SUV and opens the door.
